


Inventory

by Kahvi



Category: Red Dwarf
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-28
Updated: 2010-03-28
Packaged: 2017-10-19 03:01:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/196146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kahvi/pseuds/Kahvi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rimmer is tense. No, really, <i>really</i> tense. For the sake of shipboard peace, Lister tries to help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inventory

**Author's Note:**

> This one's for [](http://smaych.livejournal.com/profile)[**smaych**](http://smaych.livejournal.com/) \- a belated birthday present, and a general "you're awesome"!

"Thirteen crates of dehydrated vegan egg-substitute."

"Mm."

"Seven crates of imitation crab meat, stasis-sealed."

"Hm."

"Three barrels of lactose reduced, vitamin-enriched, strawberry flavored milk..." Lister paused, frowning at the paper on the clipboard. "Hang on; that can't be right - I counted those before! I'm sure of it!"

"Huh," Rimmer suggested, noncommittally. He was leaning against the mid-section wall, though with his back rod straight as ever, he appeared to be more sort of tipping towards it. His eyes, Lister noted when he tried to catch them, stared at nothing in particular; the ocular equivalent of drooling. Which, truth be told, was exactly what Lister would rather be doing, except perhaps somewhere nicer, with better scenery, and perhaps a beer or two not too far away. But he couldn’t, and he wasn’t, which only made him angrier.

“Hey!”

Finally; a reaction; Rimmer’s nose twitched, impressive nostrils vibrating. “What?”

“Three barrels of lactose reduced, vitamin-enriched, strawberry flavored milk. Did I mention that before?”

“No.”

“No?”

Rimmer blinked, his cheek twitching alongside his nose. “N… I don’t think so, no.”

“You don’t _think_ so?”

“I don’t think so, no.”

Lister looked down at the printout carelessly tacked onto an ancient clipboard. There was too much paper for the board’s protesting clip to keep down, and it bulged, dangerously, even appearing to throb slightly under the strain. Lister’s head was starting to understand how it felt. He hadn’t wanted to in charge of this, but ever since they’d escaped from Legion’s admittedly comfortable clutches, Rimmer had been acting funny. Lister knew as well as anyone else in the crew that there were certain things that had to be done around the ship, but he hated being the one that had to do it. And more than anything, he hated being the one who had to tell _other people_ they had to do it. “You don’t _think_ so, eh?”

Rimmer’s shoulder moved a fraction of an inch, then his nose twitched again, joined by both cheeks this time.

“Well, that’s just grand, that is. Just smegging dandy. We’ve been at this – what,” Lister glanced at the glaring, red chronometer by one of the inexplicably wall-mounted keyboard-interfaces, “three – no – four hours now, and you _think_ we didn’t count an item twice.”

Exhaling with a sound like a slowly deflating sex doll, Rimmer straightened. “What’s the big smegging deal? Maybe we counted it twice…”

“Yer saying we _did_ , now?”

“…maybe we didn’t; what’s the problem?”

Lister froze, mouth gaping, then slammed the clipboard down on the nearest crate, breaking the clip and scattering papers angrily. The hologram barely raised an eyebrow. That twonking twat; didn’t he realize he was forcing Lister into becoming _him_? Rimmer hated himself; he wouldn’t wish that on anyone! “Rimmer; what the goiting hell’s the matter with you? It’s a problem because we’re rapidly running out of supplies, and we’re making do with whatever we can scrounge off any random derelict we happen to come across, even if it used to belong to the Californian Hypo-Allergic Macrobiotic Vegan society; but what’s absolutely, _vitally_ important then, Rimmer, is that we take careful stock of all of the items we’ve taken, and all the items we have in store before we leave, because when we leave, _Rimmer_ , we’re not gonna get the chance to stock up again for a while, and most importantly, _you’re_ the one who’s always telling _me_ this!” He paused, gasping, looking for signs of… well, _any_ sort of reaction in Rimmer’s face. Nothing. Nada. Just that same, goited twitch. Lister glared at him, refusing to move until he spoke. Then, Rimmer finally did:

“Sorry.”

“Right,” Lister said, grabbing him by the arm and marching him out of there, “you’re going to the medi-bay.”

  
“I told you,” Rimmer said for the umpteenth time as Lister re-checked the readouts on Starbug’s ancient medicomp, “I’m perfectly all right.”

“Yer not ‘perfectly all right’; you _apologized_ to me.”

"It's just the my new hard light drive; it's taking some getting used to."

"Getting used to?"

"It's nothing," Rimmer snapped, far too quickly. Lister leaned in close, watching his twitching face closely. It all looked a bit like a well-choreographed contemporary dance, at this point.

"Oh, it's something, all right." He put a hand on Rimmer's shoulder, and nearly recoiled. "Smegging hell, man! Yer like a lump of plasticrete!"

"What of it?" Rimmer scoffed, leaning his shoulder away. "I can touch things and interact with the world for the first time in years; you can't expect me not to get a little tense."

"Rimmer, this is more than 'a little tense'. If you were a guitar string, you'd've snapped three times over!"

"That doesn't make any sense."

Ignoring him, Lister moved to the back of the chair Rimmer was reluctantly seated in, back stiff as a board, and placed his hands gently on either side of Rimmer's neck. Smegging hell, that wasn't right! He'd been joking about the plasticrete, but Rimmer's shoulders really did feel like a solid block of impervious material.

"What are you doing." Rimmer's voice was so quiet and even, it didn't even sound like a question.

"Yer tense. There's only one way to fix that." Slowly, Lister began to work his fingers into what he had to assume was muscle. Rimmer started, and for a moment Lister thought he was going to jump out of the chair, but he just sort of shuddered, remaining in his seat.

"I could take some pills. Painkillers relax your muscles." He was rambling now, crossing his legs in a manner like was afraid they'd catch fire if they rubbed against one another the wrong way. "Though actually, I tried that."

"Yeah?"

"Didn't work. My body rejected them. You don't want to know how; it was... unpleasant."

"I don't doubt it." The skin and flesh under Lister's fingers was beginning to feel nearly human, now. Colder, perhaps, but maybe this was as hot as Rimmer got. Lister pressed down harder, putting his weight into it, rubbing his thumbs in circles.

"That feels..." Rimmer's voice was lower now, deepening as he slowly but surely relaxed. It was a bit like seeing an iceberg melt. "Rather..." Rimmer swallowed, and Lister felt him tensing again.

"Fer smeg's sake, man! I'm just touching ya!"

"I'm not used to being touched," Rimmer mumbled, and Lister shook his head. Wasn't that the truth. The man inched away if Lister so much as leaned in his direction.

"Yeah, well, I'm not enjoying this, you know." That, apparently, had been the right thing to say. Soon, Rimmer was practically melting into the chair, though his muscles were still painfully hard. Lister worked at them as best he could, forcing the knots out with the heel of his hand. He couldn't say this was _entirely_ unpleasant. Lister liked to touch people; spoke as much with his hands and body as he did with his mouth, and being around Rimmer felt like being gagged sometimes. Cat was about as affectionate as any of his primitive ancestors, which was to say, entirely on his own terms, and Kryten was all angles and cold metal. It was nice to feel a proper, human body for a change.

"You're really good at this," Rimmer gasped, struggling to keep his mouth closed. Lister stifled a giggle.

"So people tell me."

"I can't imagine why; you've got fingers like over-cooked bangers."

"Thanks; I didn't know you cared."

Rimmer didn't reply, allowing Lister to focus entirely on the task at hand. He was really getting somewhere now, by the sound of Rimmer's calm, even breathing as much as the softening of the flesh he was kneading. No wonder Rimmer had been distracted; they'd been at it for a good five minutes, and he was only just beginning to feel normal. Grunting, Lister put some effort into the last, resistant knots, wondering why Rimmer hadn't once yelled out in pain. He'd done this to Petersen once, and the Dane had nearly decked him. And Petersen’s aching back had been nothing compared to this disaster area. Perhaps that was what the even breathing was about; some sort of relaxation technique? Smeg knew the man had enough books about it lying around.

Exhaling in a huff, Lister pushed himself closer, digging his fists into the tenderized skin, and suddenly Rimmer was gasping, leaning forward and panting like a steam engine. _Ah._ There were limits to self-control, apparently. "Maybe we should stop there," Lister offered, gently. Truth be told, he was a little impressed - he'd expected tears and girlish protests long before this point. "I'm sorry if I was too hard on ya." Letting go with a friendly pat, Lister began to rummage around in the nearest storage compartment. There had to be some sort of VapoRub or similar around here. That had to work for holograms; it wasn't for internal use. Said so, right no the box. He found a tube of something vaguely right-looking, with reassuring Japanese writing on the side, and waved it as he turned. "I can get a little carried..." But Rimmer was gone.

The room was spinning. No, scratch that; Rimmer was spinning. The world was standing painfully, deafeningly, blindingly still. He blinked at the steel mesh of the unused bunk above, and tried to remember to breathe. He had to - not in order to stay alive, but in order to stop thinking. The crotch of his uniform trousers was wet and sticky, but he didn't have the presence of mind to change them. He barely had the presence of mind to remember who and where he was.

Breathe. He kept breathing.

Of course the first thing he'd thought about when he'd turned corporeal was to wank until he'd lost sensation in his hands. He was _male_. When he found that the slightest bit of stimulation to entirely irrelevant-seeming body parts made him whimper with the sheer sense of **TOUCH** it impressed upon his struggling brain, Rimmer quickly scrapped that idea, however. It was like being constantly yelled at by his body; **UNEVEN METALLIC TILE FLOOR** , his feet would scream, **ILL FITTING COTTON WITH TOO MANY SEAMS** , his bottom would protest. As for his penis, it had quickly given up on the proceedings, and gone into hiding.

Of _course_ he’d tensed up. He had to concentrate just to stop wincing at the feel of his breath hitting his face when he spoke, or being constantly aware of every single simulated hair on his body. It was getting better; lately, he’d even been able to undress himself manually without having to vanish his uniform. The process would leave him massively erect and confused, however, whimpering against the starched sheets and trying not to move so it would scratch the most sensitive area of his body. So, when Lister had touched him…

 _Why_ had he let Lister touch him?! Furthermore, why had he remained seated, even as he felt wet slickness seeping out through his underwear, simply crossing his legs rather than using them to get him the hell out of there? He’d just _sat_ there, making small talk while he firmed again, gritting his teeth to keep another disaster at bay. Only pain had stopped him from coming two or three more times in rapid succession. Not that Lister’s touch was enjoyable. Lister was a man, which made him unattractive to Rimmer by default. He was pudgy, lethargic and inane, and standing so close, there had been a definite musky sort of smell, very masculine, of course, but hardly sensual, even if Rimmer had been a queer, which he wasn’t, and so that sharp, _male_ scent had done nothing but disgust him all the way to the point of another, shameful orgasm.

Breathe. Breathing was important.

  
“Four fifty pound bags of organic spelt flour.”

“Check.”

“Nineteen large cans of condensed soy-milk, plain.”

“Check.”

“Eleven crates of ‘I can’t believe it’s not feta’… erm…”

“What?” Rimmer raised an eyebrow.

“Nothing.” Lister shrugged, flipping a page on his clipboard. “Ye just seem a lot more like yerself today.”

“Who else would I be?” Angry nostrils flared in unison.

“Worked then, did it?”

“What do you mean?”

“The… you know.” _Don’t say ‘massage’_ , “massage.” _Smeg!_

It wasn’t a laugh, exactly, but it was Rimmer’s closest equivalent. “As it happens, Listy; no. It did not. It made things rather worse, _actually._ ” That didn’t sound right.

“Really?” For one thing, Rimmer was now moving effortlessly, and there were no ticks to be seen, on his face or anywhere else. No that Lister was looking.

“Yes. So if you don’t mind, I think it would be rather a good idea for you to never touch me again. Ever.”

“All right! I hear ya, guy. Like I said, it’s not like I enjoyed it.”

“Good.”

“Good.” Lister fiddled with the clipboard, where two pages had now been stuck together.

“Oh, give me that,” Rimmer snapped, snatching the thing away from him. “Right; nine vacuum packed ten pound sachets of dehydrated tofu…”

At least, Lister thought, settling on a nearby crate, things were back to normal.


End file.
